


The Wrath of the Lark

by nellii



Series: The Wrath of the Lark Universe [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Captivity, Cat School (The Witcher), Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jaskier and Geralt are both Witchers, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Witcher Schools, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Wolf Pack Dynamics, serious if broken bones is a trigger or squick this is not the right fic for you!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: It was just short of one hundred years since the day he left Caer Midfen for the last time. It wasn’t so bad living there. Aside from the unspeakable horror of the Trials, Jaskier had found safety in the carved marble halls of the Lark School. He was somewhat aware that being raised, trained, and conditioned as a weapon wasn’t a normal upbringing, but it was a place to thrive. A place to survive. Jaskier didn’t just live, he soared.Now, running from Jad Karadin and his men, Jaskier became closer and closer to breaking, to shattering.-A Witcher Jaskier AU where Jaskier, mutated with hollow bones, seeks the protection of Kaer Morhen while outrunning three hired Cat Witchers.-Not abandoned, just on hiatus
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Wrath of the Lark Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971220
Comments: 98
Kudos: 488





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Kellie and Ads for beta-ing!

The keep at the summit of the Kaedweni mountains cast a daunting shadow over the switchbacks carved into the snow and stone that never seemed to end. Jaskier had traded his cloak in exchange for a hot meal at the last village before entering the pass and was now facing the consequences of what in retrospect was a stupid decision. The wind hurled razor shards of frost and ice against his raised forearm as the desperate Witcher tried in vain to protect his face from frostbite. Losing his nose to the cold would certainly _not_ be a good look. 

He trudged through the knee-deep snow drifts one strenuous step at a time. His boots were soaked to the toe with slurry, shaking as he dragged his mangled left leg behind him. It sent shocks of agony up his shin, reaching his knee which refused to bend no matter how hard he tried. It was too swollen to do anything but limp uselessly. It didn’t matter that it would heal in no less than an hour- getting up the pass _now_ before the snowstorm turned to hail or worse and seeking shelter in the den of the wolves was what mattered. More than anything, he had to survive. 

It had not been his first choice to go to Kaer Morhen. Kaer Seren, perhaps, would have been his preferred refuge. But Poviss was about a hundred fucking miles south of where he was, and Kaer Morhen, well- if the wolves didn’t rip him to bits head to toe, he’d be able to survive winter there. If they refused him at the gates he’d simply scale one of the walls and hide in an abandoned tower until the snow cleared. He’d passed winter in worse conditions. 

He wouldn’t have had to resort to this, though, if it weren’t for those fucking cats. Three of them had been trailing him since he went to Oxenfurt after last winter. It was partially his fault, he supposed, showing his face so carelessly at the bardic festival, but it really was _their_ fault for being assholes, now wasn’t it?

Jaskier managed to keep them off his tail for months as he traversed Redania. Despite his best efforts, they managed to trap him crossing the Pontar between mountain ranges, heading on a sure path toward Dol Blathanna in the far east. He would have been safe there. 

The Witcher winced as a particularly harsh breeze rushed by, knocking Jaskier back a few steps as he struggled to brace himself. It was then that his left leg gave out, sending him careening into the deep snow drift and struggling like a fish out of water as snow found its way under his padded chemise and vest. Jaskier began to dig at the snow that surrounded him to try and climb out of the drift. He couldn’t tell when the snow ended and the storm began, his entire world drowning in stark white. 

Panting and collapsing, the exhausted Witcher let the cold curl around him. It wouldn’t be so bad to take a brief rest here. To close his eyes, to regain some of that sapped away strength. It couldn’t hurt anymore than it already did. 

-

They caught him crossing the Pontar. It was an ambush- Jaskier still fought, even though it was apparent from the start that it was useless. Like a glass ornament crashing to the ground, they sent him careening and he went from one piece to one thousand, spread across the dirt with blood and bits of bone like the stars worshipped by the elves. 

Little Larks with hollow bones, so breakable, so fragile. The Cats knew this, used it to their advantage when one of them- Brehen, Jaskier would later learn- slammed the hilt of his sword down on Jaskier’s shins. One after the other, his bones snapped and shattered as he screamed and struggled, two others holding him down. His bones healed fast. Faster than even the most agile Witcher. A small fractures took only minutes to set itself, while a harsher break or shatter needed up to an hour before he was good as new. The Cats knew this. They didn’t let him heal. 

Jaskier could feel his own monstrous body reforming his bones as the largest of the Cats, an assassin by the name of Karadin, lugged Jaskier’s body over his shoulder. He felt disgusting- a freak, even more than the freak he already was. A Witcher, and an affront to nature. 

“Fuck you,” Jaskier snarled through the pain. Karadin laughed cruelly. 

“Keep quiet, songbird. Don’t break a bone trying to talk your way free.” Brehen came up beside him- he couldn’t see with his face pressed into Karadin’s back, but Brehen’s gravelly voice was unmistakable, like he’d gargled boiling water. The third cat, Gaetan, barely spoke. “We’ve got big plans for you, anyway. Save your strength.” Brehen’s broad hand came down to pat roughly at Jaskier’s back. He felt an intense pressure on his ribcage, air squeezing through his lungs as he wheezed and tried to squirm away. 

“Too much for you?” Karadin teased coldly, holding Jaskier still with a hand barring his hips over the Cat’s shoulder. Jaskier’s ribs could easily snap under the pressure of anything harder than a light tap. Puncture his lungs, drown him in his own blood-

“Please stop,” Jaskier begged, all his bravado slipping away as he pleaded for what he knew meant his life. “Don’t- I won’t live, don’t break me there-”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Gaetan mumbled, “wouldn’t get paid for a dead Lark.” Paid. Someone was _buying_ him. Jaskier felt a sick curl in his stomach.

“We’ve been trailing this bastard for months. Roughing him up a little won’t hurt,” Brehen quipped. His hand closed around the back of Jaskier’s neck, using his grip to drag him off of Karadin’s shoulder. “Besides, I’ve been _waiting_ to get revenge for that stunt in Oxenfurt. Little bitch shot me with a silver-fucking-tipped arrow, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.” Brehen held Jaskier like a kitten, gripping his scruff tight enough to bruise, and the broken Lark could only hang there limply, messy hair falling over his eyes. He couldn’t _see_ , they were purposefully keeping him in the dark this whole time. It terrified him to no end. 

“Why are you _hunting me_ ? Who are you selling me to?” Jaskier asked, pleading more than demanding. “Please don’t break me again- it _hurts_.”

“Hurts, does it?” Brehen said, mock-sympathy dripping from his cool tone. “Thought you were supposed to be a Witcher, songbird. Thought you were _strong_. Just a fragile birdy, though, weak as glass and begging for his fucking life. Pathetic Witcher, you are.”

And Brehen was right. He was a Lark, he was supposed to be fast on his feet- not get caught or trapped. He was _made_ not to withstand a single hit in battle. He was made this way. He was made to be- broken. 

Brehen squeezed harshly, and something crunched in Jaskier’s throat. He felt something hot flooding his airway, the taste of vomit and copper- before Brehen squeezed again and Jaskier blacked out. 

-

Get up. Get _up_. 

The snow had consumed him like the stomach of a great frozen beast. Swallowed up by an ice troll, slowly letting frigid stomach acid consume him. Turning the tips of his fingers and his lips blue, then black, and then gone.

 _Get up_. 

Jaskier felt the sudden and overwhelming panic of claustrophobia overcome him, filling his chest like fluid and sputtering from his lips. He stood up abruptly, all too fast, but his left leg had already healed. He could run. 

Larks were trained to evade. To hit quick and fast and then dart out of the way before the enemy could make a deadly move. They sacrificed a typical Witcher’s constitution for agility when they were forced through those terrible trials. Larks gave up their strength and their very bones, and in return, gained the same swift flight as the birds who they were named for. Running was only a difficult ordeal when one was placing their weight wrong, when they tripped on a rock or a dip in the earth, or made any small wrong move that could send lighting-strike fractures up a Lark’s leg. 

They trained from even before the Trials to place carefully calculated weight on each step and propel oneself further. Larks were skilled in taking advantage not of pushing off the ground but using their lithe bodies, their weight and their speed to stay twenty odd steps ahead of their enemy. Lark Witchers were deadly, and in turn, vulnerable beyond belief. Like a cat showing his soft belly to a predator only to lash out with razor-sharp claws to slice through skin and sinew. Larks were killers. 

This did not save them in the end. Even the quickest and most light-footed Larks slipped up, were murdered by monsters and men alike. When the pogroms and riots broke out, damning Witchers for events in Iello, in Blaviken, Larks were already long dead- an ancient and unremembered school who’s only history lay buried in the dusty tomes of Caer Midfen. 

Jaskier braved the snow, watching as Kaer Morhen got closer and closer. As he walked, he thought of home. 

It was just short of one hundred years since the day he left Caer Midfen for the last time. The way the white carrara marble pillars scrubbed clean by Larklings shone in the midday sunlight, the way the flowers of the valley smelled in full spring bloom. Those senses were committed to memory and tucked away, hidden until Jaskier recalled them to calm him at night or distract him from the terrible and uncanny feeling of a regrowing bone. 

It wasn’t so bad living there. Aside from the unspeakable horror of the Trials, Jaskier had found safety in the carved marble halls of the Lark School. He was somewhat aware that being raised, trained, and conditioned as a weapon wasn’t a normal upbringing, but it was a place to thrive. A place to survive. Jaskier didn’t just live, he soared. 

There were moments that still clung with him. He used to awake in a pool of his own clammy sweat, screaming and sobbing with tears that freely flowed. He used to scream so hard during training when he fell and snapped a rib that he passed out, only to awake with the bone completely healed. The Elder Larks managed to train the crying and yelling out of the boys. Jaskier didn’t shed a tear anymore, nor did he utter a single noise when he lay broken at the bottom of a ditch after being tossed down by a Griffin or some other beast. 

But with his crossbow strapped to his back, armor buckled tight and a silver wing dangling from the chain around his neck, Jaskier felt none of that weighing him down. 

How far he’d come. 

-

Jaskier lurched his head forward, straining on the chains that kept him shackled to the dungeon wall, and vomited blood all over the stained cobblestone. A hiss of disgust told him he was not alone.

His throat was bruised and sore as he took in gulps of breath, finally able to breathe without thick globs of blood blocking his airway. His trachea had healed from Brehen crushing the shit out of his throat, as did both of his legs. He supposed there was no point in keeping him crippled from the waist down now that he was chained up. He gave an experimental tug, twisted his wrists delicately and gave a quick sign for igni only for his fingers to emit a sputtering spark which abruptly died out. Dimeritium cuffs, then. The Cats were prepared.

He felt sick. A full body weakness, like there was lead in the hollows of his bones. Jaskier nearly threw up again.

“You can try and escape,” Brehen said, his gravely, rasping voice like a landfall of tumbling boulders crushing Jaskier. “But your fragile little wrists would break sooner than those chains. Forged them myself, just for you.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Jaskier drawled with his head still down. “Your hospitality is immaculate.” 

Brehen’s laugh was even uglier than his growl. 

“Get comfortable, songbird. Until the sorcerer arrives, this’ll be your home away from home.” Jaskier could hear another Cat just behind the door. He leaned into the sound, closing his eyes and visualizing the layout beyond his cell, finding the best path of escape. Brehen’s voice broke his concentration. “And if you do manage to escape, songbird, we’ll break your legs. Again and again, every time they heal. Can’t fly away with no wings.”

“Ooh, Brehen, your romanticism needs _work_ ,” the Lark snarked. Slowly, he lifted his head, watching the Witcher with a gleam in his eye. Broken, but not beaten. 

Brehen wasn’t the most difficult on the eyes. He had long hair, silvery grey with the stress of the Path. His facial features were sharp and angular, his body toned and lithe. Jaskier was locked in a dungeon with a sexy Cat, and not in the fun way. A shame. Under different circumstances, Jaskier would have _pounced_. 

“Men generally go for the rougher stuff like that _after_ the first date. But for you, I might make an exception if you get these cuffs off.” Jaskier wiggled around and shook his restraints, raising an eyebrow at the visibly caught off guard Cat. “Or keep them on. I could be into that, if you wanted.”

Brehen stared, shocked. He clearly hadn’t been expecting… whatever the fuck this was. “What- what do you think this _is_?” The Cat finally hissed out. “You think you can seduce me into releasing you? Forfeiting prey we worked hard to capture? You’re out of your mind, Lark. Keep it in your fucking pants.”

“Are you sure I can’t… _purrsuade_ you?” Jaskier grinned at him, leaning forward and tilting his chin up, giving the Cat one of his prettiest flashy smiles. And when Brehen didn’t reply, he pushed even further. “What’s wrong, Brehen, _cat got your tongue_?”

Brehen backhanded him hard across the cheek. Jaskier choked, spluttering and coughing up more blood. His entire jaw throbbed, and he could feel broken bones shifting as he spoke again. 

“So much _cattitude_ .” Jaskier slurred, blood welling up at his lips. “Somebody needs a _cat nap_.”

The next hit sent Jaskier to the ground. He couldn’t find the strength to speak after that. And Brehen, the smug bastard, knelt down, lips just above the Lark’s ear. 

“Be good, songbird. Be obedient.”

-

Jaskier stumbled in through the massive hole in the portcullis and into a passage between courtyard and exterior. Something terrible had happened to that entryway. Metal twisted and warped around the hole as if something with great magic had forced its way in. Kaer Morhen had stood eons of battle, and it would live to stand eons more. 

One way or another, every Witcher school was conquered. Kaer Seren by the mages, Stygga Citadel by terrified Kings, Bloodgate Keep by Nilfgaard’s armies, Haern Caduch by the elements in the wild of the Arnell mountains. 

And Caer Midfen.

Jaskier had come to terms with the grief of losing home a long, long time ago.

The further he ventured into the Keep, the less it began to look like an abandoned ruin, and more like a home. Holes and breaks in the walls of the interior courtyard had been caringly patched up with mismatched stone and brick, staircase steps filled in with firewood and pebbles, clearly marked off to be fixed next. He even noticed a canvas propped up against the wall, evidence of scratched out paint from a ruined artistic endeavor. He never took the Wolves for the artistic type. He stepped closer to the canvas, cold fingers running over the textured surface. He could almost make out locks of silver painted hair underneath where the artist had become frustrated and upset with their work and slashed it out so it was unviewable. An artist with a short temper, then. 

Abandoning the courtyard, Jaskier pushed inside. The main hall appeared to be inhabited, a fire steadily roaring at the far end of what surely used to be a grandly decorated dining and common room for an army of Wolves. Now it was just a storage house for junk. The stone walls had once been painted with murals of revered elder Wolves. The oil paint was peeling away, cracked like tree bark in the middle and covered with a frankly disgusting layer of old varnish. The colors were all so muted and muddied, it looked less like a painting and more like a splatter. The space that wasn’t occupied by crates, barrels, and fucking _cages_ was taken up by furniture that had been dragged from other chambers in the keep. An alchemy station, a makeshift armory of sword racks and wardrobes, two tables shoved against one another at an end to make an eating area. There was even a set of four cots lined against one wall. Four wolves, who clearly preferred to sleep together, next to one another instead of in one of the many empty towers he’d seen from the outside. Four wolves who refused to part from the pack. 

Jaskier approached the beds. Threadbare blankets, each with a matted-down pillow. There was a leather cord resting on one of the pillows, one of the beds in the middle. As if to tie up one’s hair at night. He shifted away from the beds and to the table. 

It was littered with a variety of things. Books, tomes, opened and marked on various pages. A map of the Blue Mountains. Several empty tankards that reeked of White Gull. A peculiar pile of fuzz that revealed itself to be a bundle of sheep’s hair poked into shape by a slender needle, resembling a disproportionate head of a wolf. 

And finally, he found the den of the short-tempered artist. Tucked in a corner, a number of canvases, varying in sizes and wrapped in sheets, sat pushed against the wall. There was an easel set up as well, and it looked well-used judging by the lack of dust along the flat edges. He noted an open set of watercolors on the floor beneath the easel. This artist was hardly well organized. And though Jaskier was eager to see parchments or a notebook filled with the watercolor, he found none. Perhaps they were put up around the keep. The other wolves must have done it. This artist didn’t seem keen on having their work shown, Jaskier thought, recalling that ruined canvas outside. 

“Don’t turn around, motherfucker.”

Jaskier froze up, instantly going dead-still. 

“That’s right, don’t move an inch. Stay right there or I’ll slide this blade through your fucking throat, got it?”

“Yup, got it,” Jaskier said, throat dry. “So, are you a Wolf? Or do you just perpetually smell like a dog?”

“Shut up!”

Ah, the artist. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna have some trouble there. It’s sort of an impulse, of the uncontrollable sort.” Jaskier admitted. “You are a Wolf, though, right? I- I’m seeking refuge here. Just for a winter.”

The Wolf sniffed the air gently. “You smell like a Cat. You’re not getting shit from us but _killed_ if you don’t get the fuck out.”

Jaskier felt sick at the mere insinuation. “I’m not a Cat,” he said, voice dropping to a more serious tone. “They’re the reason I’m here. I’m being hunted.” 

“Do you think I care? Get out, or I’ll slit your throat right here.”

Clearly, begging for his life wasn’t going to work. And he understood the Wolf, he really did. A fierce protective instinct over his pack, over his territory. He just wanted to protect his family.

Jaskier could empathize with that more than the Wolf would ever know. 

“I can’t,” Jaskier said, soft. “They’ll kill me.” He’d apologize after the fact, he would. He did feel bad, as he spun around, dodging the Wolf’s slender dagger and delivering a jab just below his jaw. The little wolf was down instantly, dagger clattering to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he delicately pushed the dagger away with the toe of his boot. “I need to speak to someone _level-headed_ , and you just didn’t seem the type.”

“Lambert? What the fuck?”

Jaskier looked up in time to catch the pommel end of a sword slamming into his jaw and breaking it for the second time that week. He reeled, stumbling back and clutching his face before falling flat on his ass beside Lambert. 

“Wait- wait, stop!” Jaskier cried. “I didn’t want to hurt him, stop- I just want to talk!” The Wolf standing above him was snarling, a delta of scars curved up his cheek accentuating his anger in a horrible grimace. He was standing over the unconscious little wolf protectively, shoulders hunched and ready to hit again. At once, Jaskier understood. He’d hurt the runt of the litter. Fuck. 

The second hit knocked him out.

Maybe entering the den of the Wolves was a bad choice, after all.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Kellie and Cu for beta-ing!

[Fanart](https://colorsofcthulhu.tumblr.com/post/628554655465619456/i-drew-jaskiiier-s-larkskier-someone-in-the) of our sweet Lark boy by the lovely Colorsofcthulu

* * *

“Jaskier! Come look!” Kalina called, squatting beside a puddle that had gathered in the center of the training courtyard. 

Jaskier paused, shifting the tomes piled in his arms as he came over with a bright smile. “Yes, little Lark?” He asked, setting down his reading material on one of the short marble pillars. “What is it?”

“A worm,” Kalina told him, scooping it out of the water and presenting it to him proudly. “I’m gonna eat it.” 

Kalina was their youngest, the littlest Lark in the newest set of trainees. She took to Jaskier immediately, and came to him often with her findings. Last time it was a butterfly wing, and this time, a worm that looked particularly tasty. Jaskier adored her, despite her oddities.

“Oh, please don’t—”

“Then I’ll put it under Oset’s pillow!”

“No—” Jaskier sighed and knelt down, holding out his cupped hands. “Give it here, please.” Kalina sighed but placed the little worm carefully in Jaskier’s palms. “Thank you. Worms may be gross and slimy, but they’re delicate just like us,” he explained as he stood up, beckoning the child with him as he walked over to the raised wall, and just beyond it, a bed of herbs grew freshly watered from the rain. “It’s important to be kind to little, breakable things.”

“Even if nobody is kind to us?” Kalina asked, tilting her head and frowning. Jaskier set the worm down in the dirt, watching as it wriggled around and then disappeared underneath a basil plant. 

“Even if nobody is kind to us.” Jaskier smiled wearily. “It’s not our job to be loved. We are _Witchers_ , not bards.” Once upon a time Jaskier might have wished to explore the fine arts, pick up an instrument, maybe even sing. Essi always told him he had the voice of a bard. But his destiny was not to sing and dance. It was to kill. 

It was his last spring at Caer Midfen. Summer and fall would pass, then his final winter, and then Jaskier would be allowed onto the Path. He couldn’t contain his eagerness as he watched the older Witchers leave on the first day of spring, pestering them and playfully begging for them to take him with them. 

He wouldn’t be left alone all year, of course. He was constantly being put to work by the Elder Larks and teachers, and when he wasn’t studying and training, he was either dragged off by the Larklings to go play or trapped in Essi and Priscilla’s room, listening to them complain about training that day. Essi and Priscilla were the closest things Jaskier had to sisters. They both came to Caer Midfen the same year Jaskier did, trained with him and went through the Trials with him. He didn’t know how he would cope without them when the time came for them to leave. 

He didn’t know a lot of things about the day when he would finally set off on the Path, when he would be able to go towards his destiny, but he stifled his anxiety. He didn’t need to worry the Larklings. 

“Now, go find somewhere else to flit about, little Lark,” Jaskier instructed, patting Kalina once on the head. “I’ve plenty to do before next spring.”

-

Jaskier woke up in chains, _again_ , and immediately developed a headache. He didn’t think he’d escape the Cat’s dungeon only to end up in the Wolf’s. Thankfully, he found that he wasn’t chained to a wall in some stone cell. Instead, he was connected by one bound wrist to the steel bars of one of the cages lined up against the walls he’d seen before he was found by the youngest Wolf. At least he wasn’t _inside_ of it. That would be more than demeaning. 

His jaw was healed but he could feel and taste the dried blood gathered on his tongue, his lips, could feel it crusted on his cheek.

“...’n then the bastard just turned and hit me with his magic fingers!”

“So, like Eskel did last night?”

“Shut the fuck up, Geralt. That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the bars and at once he noticed the four figures standing huddled in front of him, watching him like he was a live bomb. Eskel, the scarred one, had a hand on the little one’s waist. Protective. 

“He said he was running from Cats. Did he say why? Who hired them?” The scarred one asked. 

“No. I—uh— didn’t really give him a chance.” 

“Why don’t we ask him now?” The eldest of the four grunted, and Jaskier realized those amber eyes were drilling right into him. Two more sets of Wolf eyes turned to face him. The fourth Witcher had his back turned, just a hint of white hair where he stood, shoulders hunched, brooding like a particularly grumpy hen. 

“Hi,” Jaskier offered, the chain on his arm clinking. “Guessing we aren’t going to be friends then, huh? Usually the only people who put me in chains want to kill me, fuck me, or they’re Brehen, in which case the answer is both, I should think. Though he seems awfully insistent that he _isn’t_ interested in all this,” he wiggled like a worm, hips swaying, “which is a loss on his part. So, Wolves, I’m guessing you’re choosing option _kill_?”

The Wolves stared at him blankly. The little one might have even stifled a laugh. 

“Right, introductions. Forgive me. I’m _Jaskier_ , and I come in peace. You next.”

The elder Wolf came forward to crouch in front of Jaskier, peering at the Lark as if recognizing something distant in those bright eyes of his. 

“You’re a Lark?” He asked, reaching out to grab the silver medallion hanging from a chain around Jaskier’s neck. “Or is this stolen? I haven’t seen one of these in centuries.”

“Very funny,” Lambert scoffed. “You’re a Lark, and I’m a unicorn.”

“Quiet, Lambert,” the elder Wolf growled, his gaze not leaving Jaskier. “Answer the question.”

Jaskier felt bizarrely compelled to comply, something about the demanding presence of the man who was clearly the alpha of the wolf pack urged him to. “I am.” He said. “A Lark.”

The elder made a low noise and reached to unlock the cuff keeping Jaskier bound to the cage behind him. His calloused hands were shockingly gentle, holding Jaskier’s wrist as if it were no lighter than a feather as the iron fell away. “Tell me more about the Cats, little bird. Why are they hunting you?”

Jaskier took his hand back, staying seated as the old Wolf stood up. “I don’t know,” Jaskier lied. “I only ask for protection for the winter. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as the frost melts.”

“No way. We shouldn’t get involved in Cat business,” Lambert declared, said as if his opinion was the most important and the only one that mattered. “There’s no way he’s telling the truth about his school, anyway. School of the Lark my _ass_.”

Eskel gave him a disapproving look, but Jaskier blamed none of them. They had no reason to believe him, no reason to stake any truth in his claim. As far as the world knew- as far as anyone who even remembered them knew- the Larks were all dead. 

“Little bird,” the oldest Wolf said firmly, and Jaskier looked over to him again, eyes wide. “You understand that by letting you into our home, we risk ourselves, our pack? Kaer Morhen has no ill-blood with the Larks; however, we have no reason to protect you either.”

“I’ll owe you,” Jaskier offered, grasping for straw and splinter now. “Anything. A favor to your guild. The law of bloody surprise, for all I care.” He inched forward, cautiously shifting to his knees. “I am the last Lark. I don’t want to die like this.”

-

He’d been locked in the Cat’s dungeon for almost three days before the torture began. He’d been expecting it, waiting patiently for the sick fascination that would inevitably come over his captor’s faces when they realized how much damage they could do without killing the Lark. It wasn’t information they were after, either, but they would do it out of a perverse desire to hurt and maim. Jaskier, their captive little songbird, was the perfect victim.

“I was wondering when you’d visit.” Jaskier beamed up at Jad Karadin as he stepped into the cell. “I was getting tired of Gaetan guarding my cell. He’s not much of a conversationalist, you know? I get bored so very easily.”

Karadin’s face was untelling and stone-still. It didn’t scare Jaskier. He’d seen far more than that bastard could ever know. 

“We can’t let that happen,” he said, stepping forward to grab a fistful of the Lark’s shaggy hair and yank his head back so his neck was exposed, the three deep scars there twisting as Karadin moved his head to the left and the right. He felt like a piece of meat being appraised at the market. Jaskier set his jaw, and stared up at Karadin. “You heal remarkably fast,” Karadin told him, and a toothy grin started to creep over his stone cold face. “By the time our client arrives, you’ll still be whole no matter how many times I break you. How should we start off, songbird? Breaking your fingers? They’ll heal in minutes though, won’t they? What about your ribs? How long does it take for those to fix themselves? Will you scar if I step on your forearm till the bone peeks through your skin? Will you bleed if I smash your face against the wall?”

It wasn’t as intimidating as Karadin perhaps thought it was. As long as they weren’t going to kill him, Jaskier was safe. He promised himself that. He could survive anything, as long as his heart was still beating. 

“I want to see how many feathers I can pluck from you before you stop singing,” Karadin told him, grip tightening in his hair as the other hand reached down to pin his shoulder against the wall. In one sharp tug there was a tear of skin, sinew, and fabric, and Jaskier bit clean through his tongue as his shoulder dislocated out of its socket. The burning pain shot down his arm, up through his chest, straight through to his other arm. 

Jaskier gasped, fighting to breathe through the pain. 

“You do know what we want with you, don’t you?” Karadin released Jaskier’s hair and the Lark went toppling down onto his hands and knees. “We’re going to be paid handsomely.”

“I have no fucking clue what you want!” Jaskier wheezed. His dislocated shoulder could bear no weight, and he cradled it to his chest, gentle with himself where Karadin hadn’t been. 

“Still so fiery.” Karadin clicked his tongue, and the steel toe of a hunter’s boot made contact with the back of Jaskier’s head. He went down hard, gagging on his own blood and splinters of bone. “I’ll be back when you’re healed.”

When Karadin was done with him, Jaskier didn’t cry. He just curled up, tucked in the corner with mangled limbs and shattered fingers, dislocated joints that shocked him with every move, and thought about home. 

-

The Wolves had shown him kindness. Under the elder’s- Vesemir’s- order, the young Wolf called Lambert had gone up to prepare one of the empty rooms for Jaskier. 

Vesemir had also had Jaskier stand very still while he methodically took each of Jaskier’s weapons from his person and laid them out on a table. His crossbow, with intricately carved oakwood with a handful of silver-tipped bolts, his bandolier stocked with potions, his four daggers. Once Jaskier was sufficiently disarmed, he was fed. Vesemir handed him a bowl of cold oatmeal and had him eat under his watchful eye. It was deeply unsettling, but Jaskier also hadn’t eaten in ages, and scarfed the oatmeal down like a feral animal. 

The silent fourth Wolf, whom Jaskier hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting, stayed far away. Jaskier only saw him as flashes of silvery hair that reminded him all too much of Brehen, and the sight made the Lark sick to his stomach.

Perhaps the silver-haired Wolf could smell his fear. 

Vesemir next sat a still very frozen Jaskier on a pile of furs in front of the fire in the kitchen and told him to stay put, not to wander. Jaskier was far too busy watching the scarred Wolf who stayed behind to wander around the old keep.

“I’m Eskel.” When he smiled his scars crinkled up in such a way that they seemed like crumpled satin. His lip pulled up, showing a sharp canine stuck in a permanent sneer. It was a kind face, though. “I’m sorry for breaking your jaw.”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier said, beaming. “It healed just fine. It’s fine.”

“Really? So you’re not a fragile little bird after all.” Eskel quirked an eyebrow, and Jaskier laughed. He couldn’t help it. It’d been so long since he felt so _light_ about all this. Not since he was a larkling with Essi and Priscilla. Gods, he missed his sisters. He missed his family. 

“You’re all brothers?” Jaskier questioned. 

“Mmh. Vesemir is more of a father. Lambert is more of a pest.” Eskel reached out as they spoke, asking permission silently before cupping Jaskier’s jaw gently in one hand and turning his head to the left and the right, observing the place where not even a bruise remained. “But they’re family, yeah. Pack.”

“Pack,” Jaskier echoed with a hum. He shied out of Eskel’s grip when the wolf was done checking him over, cozying up in the fur around his shoulders again. “No wonder you’re all so territorial.”

That same guilt crowded Eskel’s amber eyes. “We’ve lost a lot of packmates by letting strangers in.”

“I understand,” Jaskier said. “You don’t need to justify protecting your family to me. I understand.”

  
  


-

The cell stunk of Cat. Jaskier wasn’t allowed out, given a mug of water and hardtack through the bars and kept under lock and key otherwise, but the Lark suspected this was some sort of safe hideaway for the Cats. He saw Gaeten and Brehen nearly every day. Karadin liked to pay him short visits and leave him bleeding and broken. Oftentimes when the door out of sight from his cell opened and footsteps made their way toward his cell, Jaskier would catch a whiff of a fourth, unfamiliar Cat. A colony of them, perhaps. 

It took another one of Karadin’s visits for him to meet that fourth cat. The cell door slammed shut, metal ringing against stone and the scent of blood thick in the air as Jaskier lay in a pool of slippery red. Karadin had carved up his back, splitting skin with a silver dagger. It felt like saltwater in his wounds. Silver for monsters, steel for humans. 

Monsters.

Jaskier was a monster. 

_“I want to see what your freak blood looks like smeared across your skin.”_

And if he was a monster, Jad Karadin was every bit as beastly and horrible as him. They weren’t so different, both Witchers, both men of sin and sinew. Karadin left Jaskier on his stomach, chest heaving with every pained breath and blood trickling down his sides to stain the stone beneath him. He didn’t even have the privilege of his shirt to mop up the cuts, Karadin had taken it and he hadn’t seen it since.

Shame, it was a nice shirt.

“You look like the cat that got the canary.” Jaskier spat weakly as Karadin stood up to leave and lock Jaskier in again. His cheek was pressed to the floor, and he tasted dirt in the back of his throat. “The cat that… that got the… _cream…_ ”

Blessed silence. Jaskier passed clean out.

He knew he wouldn’t bleed out, he could live through far more blood loss than that, but he wished. 

He wished he would at least be granted the grace of a quiet death. Not a Witcher’s death, but one with as much pride as he could garner in this cold dark prison cell. 

When he opened his amber eyes again, his chest was pillowed by something slightly more comfortable than a prison cell floor, and something cold and numb was swiping over his back. 

He thrashed. 

“Hey- hey- shh!” A new voice came, a hand pinning Jaskier down in the center of his shoulders. “Stop it, stop, stop,”

Jaskier let out a broken war cry and kicked out with both feet, hoping to knock the man off of him and make a break for it. Strange, his cut up back didn’t hurt at all. It was just cold, foreignly damp, like someone had painted him in frost.

“ _Stop_.”

All of a sudden, Jaskier stopped. Not just his body, but his mind as well. He could not think, and he knew exactly why. _Axii_. It didn’t bother him as much as it should have. Why did he care at all? It was just a little magic, nothing that could hurt him. Besides, his back felt awfully good for being torn up, and he was allowed to relax a little. 

“There we go. I’m sorry.” A hand tentatively touched the back of his head, like a comforting pat from someone who had never received a comforting head pat in his life. “I’ll let you up when I’m done. I need you to stay still.”

No, Jaskier didn’t want to move. 

He focused on the physical sensations. A tingly cold coating every gash on his back, and then a soft layer of something thin and airy, not smothering or heavy. Gauze, or linen? It didn’t matter either way. 

“Okay, there. I’m going to let you up.” The voice said. “If you run, I’ll break your knees. Please don’t make me.”

Whoever had control over his mind released him slowly, so that it felt like waking up very gradually from a pleasant nap. Jaskier even yawned as axii’s control waned, and started to get up on his hands and knees. A strong hand on his waist helped sit him back and lean him against the cell wall. 

A strong hand belonging to a _cat_.

He had dark olive skin cut through with a milk-white scar that spanned from his left cheek to his right temple, barely missing his right eye. His eyes, that were a lovely shade of green ringed by gold, and his hair, that was unruly and in desperate need of a brush and was pulled back into a bun tied by a leather cord. And on his chest, the snarling head of a cat. 

“What did you do to me?” Jaskier asked, and his voice shook. 

The Cat frowned deep. “It’s an antiseptic, numbing as well. I can’t give you anything to heal, Jad disallowed it, but he let me lessen the pain. It’s as good as you’re going to get. I’m sorry. I put some gauze over it so don’t try and reach back there to mess with anything, just let it sit until you heal on your own.”

“Jad.” 

The man had a strange, funny look in his eyes. It was nothing Jaskier had ever seen in the other cat’s gazes. “Jad Karadin. He makes the rules. We follow them.”

“What about the other two?” Jaskier asked, eyes narrowing and hand sneaking around to touch at his back. He wanted to feign naivety, gain as much extra information from this anomaly of a kindness. 

“They don’t matter.” The man’s gaze flicked down, reaching out and grabbing Jaskier’s wrist in time to keep him from messing with the gauze. “Stop it.” He scolded. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Well I _may_ be _mistaken_ , but it might be the fact that one of your kin just cut me open like a hunting trophy making it _worse_.” Jaskier snarked, and the man looked taken aback. 

“I just want to help.” The Cat mumbled. 

“Why? What the fuck are you doing here? Your creepy ass brothers had no qualms dragging me here by my ankles and beating me black and blue.” Jaskier was pushing away from him, scooting across the stone to corner himself. 

“I want to help,” the Cat insisted. It was bizarrely genuine for his kind. Some kind of fucking trick. “I can’t let him have you.”

“Let who have me?” Jaskier cried, rolling his eyes in frustration. “All you motherfuckers do is play pronoun games and act all mysterious! Speak like a normal human _being_!”

The Cat sat in stunned silence, staring right at Jaskier with pinprick pupils and parted lips. “Stregobor.” He said, after a moment, and Jaskier only bristled further. “Stregobor paid us- _them-_ to capture you, to pass you over to him. You’re the last Lark. You’re a vital piece of his collection.”

 _Collection_. 

That word made Jaskier’s blood run cold. 

“It’s not complete. He’s missing a Lark, and a Wolf. If he gets you- he- he’ll have them go after the Wolf next and I-” The Cat’s head turned sharply away, hiding his eyes, gripping his knees with white knuckled hands. “I can’t let him, so I’m going to help you. Alright?”

Jaskier wasn’t exactly in a situation to refuse that offer. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * passes on *
> 
> Heed the tag updates, Brehen is not kind.
> 
> TW for unwanted sexual/romantic advances which the victim becomes accustomed to and starts to believe that he likes it. 
> 
> Jaskier? whumped  
> Geralt? out of character  
> Hotel? Tr-

Jaskier breathed out. 

Jaskier breathed out, and in a puff of frozen breath all the tension seeped out of his body. Through the hollows of his bones, to his toes, through the soles of his feet, and then down down into the earth where it would stay as he centered his mind. 

Jaskier breathed out. 

And forward he darted across the courtyard, dagger tucked between his fingertips and feet barely touching the ground as he burst forward and twisted his wrist. With a powerful flick, the dagger flew from his hand and sliced through the air, landing cleanly in the chest of a straw-stuffed dummy. He barely slowed in his steps. From there he leapt onto the stone bannister, swaying perilously hundreds of feet above the cragged, snow-painted valley of Kaer Morhen. But light as ever, swift as ever, Jaskier kept his balance as he ran across the bannister, kicking off and aiming to clamber up the wooden scaffolding that lined one wall of the courtyard. The heel of his left boot slipped on the ice coating the wooden support, an arm flailed out, a scream began to bubble in his throat, and all of a sudden he was being jerked off of the bannister by his wrist. 

_ Snap _ .

“Ow, oh fuck!” Jaskier hissed, squeezing his eyes shut as he swayed. “Ow, ow, Gods above, damn your stupid fucking Wolf strength!”

“Shit,” the littlest Wolf immediately let go of Jaskier, stepping back with both hands up in defense, “I was just trying’ to help, little lark, you were about two seconds from cracking your head open like a snowglobe at the bottom of the pass.”

“I can manage without you breaking my wrist!” Jaskier snapped, venom in his voice, and he could practically  _ hear _ the Wolf pup flinch. 

“Your fucking fault for messing around out here anyway.” Lambert muttered. 

“Oh? And what were you doing out here, Lambert?” Jaskier turned to face him, eyes open now, angry amber surrounding pupils turned to slits. “Did Vesemir put you on Jaskier duty? I don’t need a goddamned babysitter. I’ve been here for a month, and I haven’t done  _ anything _ wrong.”

Jaskier’s chest was heaving, his now mottled purple wrist clutched against his chest holding tight to his medallion. Lambert, on the other hand, looked like a kicked puppy. His shoulders were hunched up, chin tucked to his chest. His hands were balled in fists at his side like he was either holding back from punching Jaskier in the face or from hitting  _ himself _ . 

Jaskier forced himself to level his head. 

“Lambert.” He tried.

“Fuck you, lark.” The pup growled. “Making a great impression here, I can tell you that.”

Jaskier closed his eyes, clenched his medallion a little tighter. “That wasn’t right of me, to yell at you like that. It was just my wrist- and I- I’m not used to having help, you know? And I really, really hate being treated like I’m fragile.”

“You are fragile, lark.” Lambert muttered. And Jaskier was about a second away from unleashing his anger once more, but the pup’s voice was sincere. He said fragile in the same way someone might say  _ pretty _ or  _ kindhearted _ . 

He said fragile like it was a virtue, not a vice. 

“I  _ am _ sorry, Lambert.” 

“Yeah, whatever. You can make it up to me by getting us some cocoa.”

-

Geralt ran into them in the hall. He passed by where they sat across from one another at the table, ruffling Lambert’s hair and earning a shriek from the little Wolf.

Jaskier- the guest, as he’d taken to calling him, wasn’t fond of the white Wolf’s company, so out of courtesy he kept their time together as a minimum. Something irked him about the way Jaskier would look at his snow white hair and go pale, his scent souring like rotten lemons.

“Brat.” Geralt told Lambert, fondly, and caught out of the corner of his eye a hint of a withdrawn smile coming from Jaskier. 

A smile like that could melt all of winter away. 

“Bastard!” Lambert snapped, equally as fondly, and that was that.

When Jaskier and Geralt’s eyes met, Jaskier’s scent took on that terrible tang.

“Can I sit beside you?” Geralt asked, voice hushed, eyes down. “It’s warmer with the three of us close together.”

Jaskier, who seemed rather taken aback by that request, shrugged and nodded to the seat beside him. “Yeah, do what you want. I don’t own this bench.”

Geralt sat beside Jaskier, reaching out to gently take his battered wrist in his broad, calloused hands. 

“Lambert do this to you?” Geralt murmured as Jaskier watched him cautiously, and Lambert shuffled his Gwent deck in preparation for another round. 

“Yeah. It was an accident.” Jaskier admitted.

“Want me to kick his ass for you?”

“No, that’s alright.”

“He can kick my ass himself, Wolf. Don’t gotta be his knight in shining armor.” Lambert snarked across the table, flicking down ten cards from his hand at random and setting the rest down. 

Ignoring Lambert, Geralt carefully brought Jaskier’s hand to his lips, pressing a single chaste kiss to the top of his hand. Jaskier jerked away as soon as those soft lips graced his skin. 

“What was that?” He asked, eyeing Geralt like a feral animal. Lambert had gone silent. 

“A kiss.” Geralt said simply, blinking wide eyes at the Lark. “Vesemir used to kiss our bruises when we got hurt training. Sometimes Lambert still makes me kiss his. It’s supposed to make you feel better.”

“Oh.” Slowly, Jaskier extended his hand again. “Do it again.”

Geralt complied, slowly bringing his hand to his lips and this time kissing over his wrist, over ugly bruised and battered skin protecting shattered bone. It did sort of feel better, if only in that distant buzzy way, like drinking warm tea after being in the snow for very long. 

Later that night, after most of the wolves had retired to bed, Jaskier quietly asked Geralt to kiss him again.

And again.

The kisses were endless, a whisper across his skin, a secret only he and Geralt knew.

And, oh, again, until it was all Jaskier could feel, and all Jaskier could ever want. It was just going to be this one night, he told himself. He needed the warmth. He needed the release. He barely knew this wolf. 

Again, on the lips this time. 

Again, on the soft skin of Jaskier’s jaw.

Again, on the scar on Geralt’s forehead.

Again. 

-

Jaskier wished he knew Kaer Morhen was this cold before he took up temporary residence for the winter- the winter that felt like it was going on for  _ ages _ , and the snow that showed no sign of stopping as it piled up around the stone walls of the keep. 

He was avoiding Geralt, and that made these empty corridors all the more frozen. The poor Wolf didn’t even understand why. It was just a kiss- several kisses- several kisses that both thawed away at and fed into Jaskier’s desperate need for warmth. Not just the bone deep warmth that all Larks complained about in the winter, but a warmth that concentrated in Jaskier’s chest and grew to the size of his entire body. 

Jaskier stopped eating meals in the hall with the rest of the Wolves and instead lingered in the doorways like a circling vulture, waiting until Geralt made himself scarce before slipping in and picking over the leftovers at the table.

He never should have fucking kissed him. Now, the memories came back to him, brutal and violent and tasting of blood.

-

Karadin handled the extensive torture sessions. Gaetan brought him food and water. Brehen stood right in front of the unlocked cell door, and teased Jaskier like the damned Tantalus always reaching for the grapes right above his head. Except it was his freedom, his life, Brehen was holding up beyond his reach. 

The first time Brehen kissed him, lips cold and unforgiving, silver hair falling around Jaskier and obscuring the world around him, no such softness or kindness that  _ should _ come from a kiss, Jaskier kicked and screamed. He learned his lesson when Brehen carved out a piece of his thigh for fighting. 

“He- he put his lips-” Jaskier stuttered, tears flowing down his cheeks when Aiden came to him. Aiden, his one beacon of light. Aiden, who promised to get him out of here. The Cat still refused to reveal any details to him. Even his own name was something Jaskier had to pry from him like teeth. 

“Let that be the worst of it.” Aiden said solemnly, kneeling down to press a handful of cotton into the wound on Jaskier’s thigh. “And don’t fight when he does it again. He  _ will _ do it again, Jaskier. That’s what does it for him, being cruel.”

-

It was not the worst of it. The worst of it came when Jaskier began to kiss back. 

“What a good Lark,” Brehen purred, hand stroking Jaskier’s disgusting hair- black with dirt and blood and grease. “I’ll miss you, when Stregobor comes for you. I’ll miss seeing your blood on Karadin’s blade. And I’ll miss these pretty lips of yours, Lark.” His other hand gripped Jaskier’s jaw firmly, thumb scraping over his split bottom lip and spreading blood down his chin. He had his boot between Jaskier’s thighs. Jaskier felt like throwing up all over his shoes. He didn’t. 

Because it was all he had.

Every day, though he was unsure when was day and when was night anymore, Karadin made him suffer, and stripped his dignity away until he was a mess on the cold floor. It was not so hellish that Jaskier went mad from it all. He was trained in this, anyway. Trained to take pain. It was the contrast of Brehen, caring in all the wrong ways, prodding at his injuries and speaking to him in a sweetly mocking tone about how  _ strong _ he was, how pretty he looked covered in blood and broken, how much they were going to be paid for this perfect specimen of a Witcher. 

It was all he had, to lean into that one good thing. Because if he was going to die, and god, Jaskier hoped he would die when Stregobor got him, he could at least die feeling the occasional bloom of twisted pleasure in his chest when he was praised for spitting up blood and teeth and bile. 

He could at least die without hating himself for it. 

-

“Why are you avoiding me?” Geralt asked, and  _ fuck _ , that was painfully blunt. He had Jaskier more or less trapped at the bottom of a tower, Geralt blocking the door, and feeling terrible about it. He was acting like the oaf Lambert told him he was. 

“I’m doing what?” Jaskier said, unconvincingly. “This is news to me.” He was visibly nervous, bouncing from foot to foot and looking ready to bolt up the tower. 

“We kissed.” Geralt pointed out. Stupid, idiot man. Eskel was going to have his head if he scared Jaskier into locking himself in the tower. 

“Ah, yes, we did, thank you very much for reminding me. Now, I’m just off to the kitchen-”

“We kissed. It was  _ nice _ .” Geralt offered again, finding the words blocky and stubborn. He couldn’t form them the right way, couldn’t smooth them into a way that would make sense. He wished Jaskier was in his brain, could hear his thoughts instead of having to decipher his emotionally stunted grunts of admission. He couldn’t stand being isolated from the Lark anymore. If Jaskier regretted that night, well- Geralt would understand. But he couldn’t let this go on without closure. It ate at him. 

Jaskier, though, seemed all too happy to let it fly as it was. 

“And- and what?” Jaskier asked, bordering on hysterical. “You want to do it again? Why? Why would you want to kiss me? Why did we do that in the first place? It doesn’t make any damn sense, Geralt.”

Geralt blinked. It didn’t have to make sense, not for him. “I would like to do it again.” He said. “But that’s not why… that’s… I don’t want…  _ talk _ to me.”

Jaskier threw his hands up dramatically. “No!” He shouted. “No, why should I? I’m here on  _ pity _ , Wolf, and I only kissed you because- because I needed it, damn it all, I needed to feel warm. But it was such a  _ mistake _ .” The Lark was shaking with every word. “It’s all a big mistake. I didn’t want to be here in this damn keep, I’m  _ trapped _ here, and it shouldn’t be my fault that I’m trapped with a handsome Wolf and that- and that the only thing I knew how to do was kiss you, and it shouldn’t be my fault that you look like  _ him _ , and that’s why I kissed you! Oh, fuck, fuck,” he palmed at his eyes, trying desparately to stop the tears. 

Geralt stared on, in horror. Not at the Lark, but at  _ himself _ . If he had had any clue-

“I shouldn’t have said any of that at all. Get out of my way, please, gods-” Jaskier covered his eyes with one forearm and shouldered past Geralt, disappearing down the hall with his sniffles and gasps for air echoing through the keep. 


End file.
